Reading John
by TheReturned
Summary: John is used to Sherlock deducing him, and he's okay with it. Until, suddenly, he isn't. Not that this stops Sherlock, obviously. Future Johnlock, first fanfic. Please note ratings change - "final" chapter is finally uploaded! Now definitely Complete.
1. Chapter 1: A case!

**Hello to you. This is my first fanfiction. I would say 'please be nice' but I'd rather you were honest - I think! It is intended to end up as a Johnlock piece so if this doesn't float your boat then you have been warned. Reviews are lovely and, although I have a good idea of where this is going, I fully intend to take reviews on board and they will shape the future chapters. **

**I don't have much else to say so please continue reading and I hope you enjoy. **

* * *

A sigh. Temporary silence. Then:

"John, I-"

"Look, just forget it, alright?" John closed the paper with a flourish and placed it not-to-gently on the coffee table in front of him. "Just... don't worry about it."

Sherlock paused, and bit his lip. "I've offended you."

"No, no you haven't," John said exasperatedly, running a hand through his short blond hair, the other resting on the arm of his chair while his fingers tapped an agitated rhythm. "I know the drill. Don't be upset, most people are stupid, you're actually one of the cleverer stupid ones, etc etc..."

"Well you are," was the retort. "So why the hurt look?"

John rolled his eyes before staring up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm sorry that I can't control my knee-jerk reaction to something horribly offensive that you've said. You'd think after several years I'd be used to it by now."

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly. "So you are offended!"

"NO!" John stood up angrily, trying to keep his emotion in check, very aware that his annoyingly calm flatmate was watching and recording every reaction, every flicker of eyelid, every flush of upset, anger, every tone of voice used. It wasn't enough to keep himself a closed book though. That man was so bloody aggravating.

"Forgive me for thinking otherwise," Sherlock muttered coolly. "Anyway, what does it really matter what I think?"

That threw John a little. He stared at the detective, confused, his anger dissipating for now. "Excuse me? Why does it matter what my friend thinks of me? Oh, I couldn't possibly imagine..." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, waiting for a verbal response, but was met with a stare. A deducing stare. He should have been used to that by now too, and normally he was fine with it. Well, possibly 'fine' was too strong a term. He had accepted it as part of Sherlock, part of his way of working, a part of him. It didn't normally unnerve him when he realised that Sherlock was trying to read him. He kept very few secrets from Sherlock, if any at all. He was 'okay' with it.

But for some reason, at that moment, he felt odd. He felt vulnerable, naked under Sherlock's gaze, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Maybe it was because Sherlock was reading him mid-argument. No, it couldn't be that. It often happened that way, and sometimes John almost welcomed it, saving him from having to explain how he was feeling or why he was annoyed with his friend. It could often be quite the time-saver.

"Stop it," he mumbled, stepping subconsciously away from Sherlock. As if that was going to help.

The detective's head shook ever so slightly, in a blink-and-you'd-miss-it way, but John hadn't missed it. He wasn't sure what that shake meant. Had Sherlock deduced something? Was John unreadable? Either way, Sherlock looked confused. His grey-blue eyes bore into John, in a rather alarming manner, and his mouth twitched. Amusement? John wasn't sure, but it was starting to freak him out a little.

"I'm going upstairs," he said eventually. "I've had enough of your stupid mind games. I'm not offended, but please, just leave me alone for a bit."

No response. There was barely an acknowledgement that Sherlock had even heard him, but John continued to move away from him, towards the doorway, before turning around and heading up to his room.

* * *

The next morning, John awoke suddenly at 6.30. Sunlight was starting to stream through the window, being the beginning of summer, and he observed the beams lined across his room in a daze. Glancing at the clock, and then remembering it was the weekend, he groaned audibly and turned over, trying to grasp another hour or so of sleep, but after tossing and turning for the next forty minutes to no avail, he eventually conceded defeat and got up. Stretching slightly, he suddenly remembered the events of the previous evening, and felt his stomach cringe as he recollected the way that Sherlock had stared at him. He still had no idea why he had felt so strange, even after having slept on it, which was normally a great help for him. That man could unnerve anyone though, he thought grimly, and set about locating his dressing gown, having his usual morning craving for a mug of tea.

He pattered down the stairs and entered the living room, and was shocked to see Sherlock was already up, sitting in his armchair. Despite needing hardly any sleep while on a case, he was normally a very late riser when they were quieter, and John was amazed that the detective was also dressed for the day. No... Sherlock was still wearing what he wore yesterday. And he was sitting in the exact same way that John had left him last night. Sherlock hadn't been to bed, and by the looks of things, hadn't even moved.

"Mind Palace," John breathed, understanding, and his words seemed to stir Sherlock out of his reverie.

"Attraction!"

John stared at Sherlock, who had jolted forward in his chair, suddenly looking right up at John, eyes slightly glazed over. He shook his head, quite vigorously, as if to knock away from cobwebs, and then gazed up at John properly.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

"Hmm? Err, nothing. Don't worry about it. I erm... are you going to bed? It's still sunny. Wait, it wasn't sunny just now, it was dark, John, what's going on, what time is it?"

A garble of words, not unusual when Sherlock had 'come round' from his Mind Palace, and as he spoke he rose from his chair and started moving around slightly anxiously, not looking at John anymore. He gazed across at his beloved violin, before turning back towards John but still not quite looking at him.

"Sherlock, it's nearly half seven... I think you've been out of it all night."

"Fine, fine," Sherlock muttered, pacing around the room again. "It's all fine, John, I have a case!"

"Oh," said John, relaxing slightly. Maybe Lestrade had contacted Sherlock after he had disappeared upstairs last night. Maybe that's what Sherlock was talking about. He moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on before retrieving some milk from the fridge and two large mugs from the cupboard. "Anything I can help with?" he asked, glancing up at his excitable friend.

The pacing stopped, and suddenly Sherlock was looking across at John again, the eyes boring into him, flashing with amusement, the flickers of a smile forming at the edges of his thinly pressed lips.

"Absolutely, John. Absolutely."


	2. Chapter 2: Followed

**Thank you muchly for the reviews, favourites etc of the first chapter. This chapter is, I guess, a sort of filler chapter. Necessary for the story, but not an awful lot happens I'm afraid (I'm not selling myself well, am I?). Anyway, I hope you all still enjoy it. I will try and upload chapter three within the next few days so you won't have to wait too long, promise! Please continue to read and review, it makes me happy :)**

* * *

Monday morning came round soon enough, and for once John was delighted to be heading off to work. The weekend had been difficult, to say the least. It felt like Sherlock's eyes had been on him constantly, and John couldn't say for sure that his friend hadn't crept into his bedroom at night. To be fair, this wasn't unusual - John had grown used to Sherlock's odd ways, and had woken up before to find Sherlock staring at him ("You were yelling, I was intrigued" - during the time when the night terrors were at their worst) but this felt different, and somehow even more intrusive than usual.

"You're not going to follow me to the surgery now, are you?" John had joked to Sherlock that morning, as he sat eating his toast. The detective was draped across his armchair, plucking at his violin and gazing towards the window, for once his stare pre-occupied by the outside world.

"Why on earth would you think something so preposterous?" was the lazy reply, no movement towards the doctor, still staring out of the window.

John had shrugged, finishing the last bit of his breakfast before pushing his plate away slightly. "You just seem to have been rather interested in me over the last couple of days," he'd said, a little boldly. "I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd found you hovering over me in my sleep."

Sherlock chuckled quietly. "Don't be daft John," he replied. "There's no way I'd have let you catch me this time."

John had stared at him for a few seconds, trying to decipher whether his friend was joking or not, but soon came to the conclusion that he had no idea, and probably wasn't ever likely to. Such was the way with his odd, secretive flatmate. He stood up, scraping his chair backwards, and moved to take the plate and his empty mug over to the sink.

"What are you doing today then? Working on this case of yours?" he'd asked. "You've not made any mention of it since Saturday morning, I take it it's not an urgent one?"

"Oh no," Sherlock said breezily. "I've got all the time in the world for this one. Just something to keep me amused until Lestrade finds something for me to get my teeth into."

John turned round and moved back towards Sherlock. "So... this isn't a case from Greg, then?" he asked, confused.

The confusion was shared by Sherlock, who knitted his brows together as he slowly turned his head to regard John. "Greg?"

John snorted. "Greg. Lestrade. That guy you've known for nearly a decade."

"Oh him," said Sherlock, returning to giving his violin a little attention. The pluck, pluck, pluck of the strings was beginning to irritate John for some reason, and he wished he would stop it. "No, it's not one of his."

John bit his lip. "Then-"

"Don't you have patients to try and not kill?" Sherlock asked suddenly, glancing up at the clock. "Chop chop Dr Watson, the NHS might crumble without you."

John shot Sherlock a look, before walking to the door and grabbing his jacket that was hanging off the back. "I'll be home around 5," he'd said, hesitating. "Look, if you need any help with this..."

"John, trust me, you are being an enormous help. If a little difficult at times, but that's probably to be expected." Sherlock waved a hand at him, as if wafting him away. "Now go, I need to collect my thoughts."

John thought back to that last remark from his friend as he approached the surgery, the large white building looming before him. He was glad to be out today. Sherlock's odd mutterings and constant watchfulness was making his head hurt. He had a horrible feeling that him not being left alone by his flatmate was a part of this secretive case of his. He sighed, rubbing his hand against his forehead. Sherlock wasn't the only one who needed to collect his thoughts.

* * *

"John?"

He glanced up from his computer screen and grinned widely at the blonde head poking round the door. "Mary, hi. What's up?"

The blonde head smiled and the rest of her body appeared from behind the door as she wandered into Dr. Watson's room. "Not much, just coming to see if you fancied a tea. I'm just making one for myself before afternoon surgery starts," she said, resting against John's desk and watching him carefully.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he said, continuing his smile. "How's your morning been?"

"Urgh, busy, full of hypochondriacs and the odd revolting skin issue. You?"

"Yeah, about the same," he said, chuckling lightly. "Completed with a baby who really wasn't impressed with his six-week check up, and a mother who fretted every time I moved him slightly. I wasn't aware that babies were made of bone china these days."

Mary laughed, her eyes lighting up, and then paused, still watching John closely. "Err, John... I was just wondering if... well, I was wondering if you fancied going out for a drink tonight? If you've not got anything... obviously, if you'd rather not then that's fine aswell..."

John was slightly surprised. He hadn't even thought about Mary in that way before. She was just the very friendly, amusing nurse who was always happy to make everyone "a brew" and gossip in a non-malicious way about anything and anyone. She made the days more fun and interesting, but John had genuinely always seen her as a friend and nothing else.

His eyes moved over her quickly, aware that she was nervously awaiting a response. She was very pretty, had a good figure, not too tall for his slightly short height, and despite him never seeing her in anything other than her uniform, he imagined she was a rather stylish dresser. He knew he could do a hell of a lot worse than her.

And yet... there was something niggling at him. Something he couldn't quite put a finger on.

"Mary," he said eventually. "I'd love to go out for a drink tonight. But... I don't want to get your hopes up, I'm not really looking for anything serious. A drink, though, would be lovely."

He saw her quick, slightly crestfallen look, and felt really bad, but she still smiled at his agreement to a drink.

"Excellent," she said chirpily. "Fancy meeting at the Golden Lion, say around 7?"

John nodded, breathing out as he realised the whole conversation had put him rather on edge. He had meant it; a drink would be lovely, but he was not interested in anything other than friendship with Mary. Despite the fact that she was smart, pretty, and very funny. What on earth was the matter with him?

"I'll go make that tea then," she said, looking a little awkward suddenly, and she stepped backwards to the door, before departing. John had barely managed to look back at his screen before he heard her exclaim "Oh, I'm sorry, are you waiting to see Dr Watson? Afternoon surgery doesn't - hey!"

"Very interesting, Dr Watson!" John looked up to see Sherlock's rather triumphant-looking face, and Mary appearing again behind him, shooting an apologetic look at John.

"John, I'm sorry, he..."

"It's okay Mary, don't worry," John sighed, glaring at Sherlock. Mary, sensing the tension emanating from John, disappeared hurriedly from the room, leaving the two men staring at each other.

"What. On. Earth?" John hissed through gritted teeth. "Why are you here? I _told _you you'd do this!"

"Couldn't resist, my dear Watson," Sherlock beamed. "You're really helping this little case move swiftly along. It's very good of you, you know."

John shook his head impatiently. "You're not going to tell me what you're talking about, so just piss off before I start throwing medical textbooks at you, okay?" he exclaimed, Sherlock's grinning face really beginning to irk him. "I am getting really fed up with you _stalking me _constantly! How long have you been hanging around out there? Can you not just leave me alone when I'm _working?!"_

"Whatever you say, John. Oh, and by the way," he paused in the doorway, gazing back at the doctor. "Am I invited to this not-a-date tonight?"

John's eyes lit up in fury and he moved towards Sherlock, but the detective, sensing his rage, wisely disappeared before any books were flung.


	3. Chapter 3: Not-A-Date

**Well, this is uploaded a lot quicker than I'd originally intended, but I watched Third Star earlier this evening for the first time (not that the storyline has anything to do with this), promptly burst into tears and then felt inspired to write. And write and write. This is a slightly longer chapter than the previous two, and I hope it is to everyone's satisfaction. I can't promise chapter four will be uploaded so speedily! Once again, many thanks for favourites, follows and reviews, they make me a happy girl. :)**

* * *

As John made his way home to prepare for his "not a date" that evening, he became suddenly aware of the person walking towards him, hand raised in the air and a slight smile on his face. As the person drew nearer, John quickly recognised the face of Greg Lestrade, and realised, due to a lack of cases recently, he hadn't seen him for nearly three weeks. He slowed his pace down as they walked towards each other, coming to a stop not too far from Baker Street.

"Greg, hi. How are things?" John asked, as the detective lowered his hand and smiled at him. "Quite quiet at the yard just now?"

"Well, we were, until this morning," Greg said, raising an eyebrow. "Multiple homicide in a residential property, doors and windows locked from the inside, absolutely no clue as to how the murderer got in or back out, and definitely not a murder/suicide by any of the victims."

John nodded, intrigued. "Ah well, I guess you're on your way to present the case to Sherlock, then?"

"No, I'm on my way back from yours," Greg said, and John shook his head slightly, realising how obvious that was as Greg had been walking towards him. It had been a tiring, annoying day and John wasn't thinking straight, clearly.

"Ah right, of course. So Sherlock's happy now then? He has a case," John nodded expectantly.

Greg bit his bottom lip, looking straight at John. "Well, that's the odd thing John. Sherlock reckons he's too busy just now to help out. I thought this case would be right up his street, it's a puzzle, and he wasn't able to tell me off the cuff what had happened when I gave him the details. But he's not interested. And he wouldn't tell me what was more important than the chance to work on this with us."

A cool breeze blew across John's face as he stared back at his friend, confused and slightly alarmed. Sherlock had turned down a case, a case that sounded like it could be at least a five or a six, perhaps more. This never, ever happened. Sherlock was like a wild raging bull when he didn't have a case, and he _hadn't _had one for quite some time now. Normally this was a bad sign, a sign that the impatient cravings would start and John would have to work hard to ensure that Sherlock's boredom didn't become more dangerous than shooting bullet holes into walls or practising experiments likely to blow up the whole street, never mind the house. And they were dangerous enough. But his flatmate hadn't shown signs of being anywhere near that level of boredom, and John suddenly panicked at this unusual behaviour.

"Err.. right. Give me a chance to speak to him Greg. Maybe I can change his mind."

Greg nodded at the doctor, eyeing him up. Sherlock had seemed very blasé when he'd seen him not ten minutes before, and even the detective could tell that there was something different about him, yet he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"I might not get a chance to talk to him tonight though, I'm off out," John added suddenly, remembering his not-date with Mary that he was slowly running out of time to get ready for.

"Oh yes, he did say. Hope you two have a nice time, let me know if you manage to persuade him to help us," Greg said, nodding at John before darting off towards his police car parked up on the kerb just behind them.

_Hope you two have a nice time... _John sighed, making his way hesitantly towards his flat. It seemed he wasn't going to get a break from being watched while he was out tonight, either.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called, shutting the door gently behind him. He could see immediately that his friend wasn't in the kitchen or living room, and so presumed he was getting ready in his bedroom. When he heard no response, he wandered through the room and into the hall leading to Sherlock's room, knocking on his door and then pressing his ear up to it. "Sherlock, you in there?"

No reply. The bathroom door was wide open and John could see he wasn't in there either. He moved back into the kitchen and then noticed the piece of paper left in the middle of the table. He grabbed it and read the two lines quickly.

_Gone to pick up my friend, see you later._

_Don't wear the light blue shirt, it drains you. SH._

John growled, although was surprised to see mention of another friend. Sherlock didn't have friends, did he? That was sort of the point; John was his only friend. He shrugged to himself before balling the piece of paper up and tossing it into the bin, and then jogging up the stairs to his room to get ready.

* * *

The music was far too loud and the pub, in terms of the amount of people in it, was far too quiet. For a Monday, though, it was probably about right, John thought, as he made his way to the bar and ordered himself a pint. The barman recognised John from his infrequent visits with Greg or similar to watch a match, and didn't need telling what drink he wanted, which pleased John in a small way. It was nice to be remembered.

He wasn't early, but Mary hadn't arrived yet, so, having paid for his drink, he leant back against the bar and surveyed the room. There were a few couples sitting closely together, whispering to each other, a couple watching the music video playing on the wide-screen telly in the corner, and a few men dotted around, some in suits, some in more casual clothes, just having a drink and relaxing. He hadn't noticed Sherlock yet, but guessed he would show up at some point, annoying him and Mary.

John's eyes drifted to one couple that his subconscious had picked out, and he started when he realised that he recognised the man whose arm was wrapped around a rather pretty brunette, whispering something that obviously amused the woman into her ear. As John focused on them, the man looked up and winked at him.

"John! What a pleasant surprise."

The doctor grimaced before moving over to their table and, without thinking, sitting down opposite them. "Sherlock," he said, dangerously quietly, though he knew he'd been heard despite the noise. "And who is this... lady friend of yours?"

The woman in question giggled at John before turning slightly to face Sherlock, who had an odd, amused look on his face.

"Oh, how rude of me to not introduce you. John, this is Janine, my... lady friend, as you so put it," he smirked, as Janine flashed a friendly grin at John before snuggling into Sherlock, intertwining her fingers with his.

"Janine. Hello, Janine," John replied through gritted teeth, not entirely sure why he was so wound up, but blaming Sherlock's stalking tendencies once again. "How did you two meet?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a cooing sound from behind John. Janine's eyes lit up in surprise as she clocked a friend of hers.

"Mary!" she trilled, standing up to embrace the woman who had obviously just entered the pub.

"Mary?" John asked, turning to see the nurse being hugged by Sherlock's... whatever she was.

"Hello Janine! How lovely. I've not seen you in so long," Mary gushed, as Janine kissed her cheek in a slightly fake but friendly manner that even John noticed. She turned and smiled at John, then noticed Sherlock and frowned slightly. "You... aren't you the-"

"How about we get these boys a drink?" Janine asked, smiling at Sherlock and John before turning back to Mary and steering her towards the bar. Sherlock smiled at the girls as they departed, before turning his attention back to John.

Before he could say anything, John spluttered. "You... but you're a ... you.."

"I can assure you, John, that I have absolutely no idea what jumble of words you are trying to cough up, but I'll sit and wait here until you deign to form an intelligible sentence," Sherlock retorted, a slight twitch in his eyes.

John cleared his throat, and then tried again. _"You don't date."_

"Oh, I know," Sherlock said. "Well, up until tonight, anyway. I thought it might be fun, so many people seem to be so keen on it."

John narrowed his eyes. "And?"

His friend shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "It has it's perks," he remarked, gazing over at Janine who was stood by the bar, talking animatedly to Mary. She glanced at Sherlock and winked, and he smiled in an almost sickly manner at her.

John certainly felt a little nauseous. "And you thought it would be wonderful to gatecrash my... meeting with Mary on your first date? Which seems to be going marvellously well, by the way."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, well, I suppose it is technically our first date, but we have _spent time together _before tonight. If you know what I mean."

John stared at his friend. This behaviour was unheard of from him, and John wouldn't have been all that surprised if he'd found out that Sherlock had had a brain transplant. He leant across the table slightly. "If I know what you mean?!"

Sherlock looked puzzled momentarily. "_Don't _you know what I mean?"

"Oh good god," John snapped back into his chair, grabbing his drink and downing it. "I don't think there's enough alcohol in the world for this."

The dark-haired detective said nothing, just watching John, the small smirk still playing around his lips. John ran his finger around the rim of his pint glass, lost in thought for a little while. It didn't make sense. Surely, if Sherlock had been seeing someone, John would know about it? He would have seen someone coming and going, Sherlock would have surely told him about her. But obviously not, he thought, looking back up at Janine as she and Mary approached the men with more drinks, Mary sliding into the chair beside John and Janine resuming her position cuddled up next to Sherlock. He wound his arm back around her shoulders but still continued to watch John carefully.

"So," Janine said, grinning at John. "Are you two..."

"Oh, no," John jumped in, before Mary could say anything. "We're just, uhh... friends. That's all." He noted the disappointed look in Mary's eyes, but she nodded along with him.

"Ah, that's a shame," Janine said, moving closer into Sherlock's lean frame. "It's lovely being back on the dating scene again. And Sherlock is just so attentive... it's so nice to meet someone so caring and thoughtful."

John was in the process of choking on his second drink at the adjectives used to describe his absolute git of a friend, when his eyes nearly fell out of his head as Sherlock swooped in and planted a chaste but sweet kiss on Janine's lips. He faintly heard Mary making an "aww" sound as his whole body suddenly went very cold, and, choking fit over, he found he was still struggling to breathe. The music faded into the background, and he was aware of Mary asking John if he was okay. Then those eyes burned into him, eyes like ice, eyes that he knew could read him so very, very well...

"I'm really sorry Mary, I need to go," John said abruptly, standing up suddenly. "I feel a little... a little dizzy. I think I need... yes, I'll go. I'll see you tomorrow though, yeah?" Before she could respond, John had grabbed his jacket and moved towards the door.

Mary stared at the couple opposite her, before turning back to John's retreating figure. "Are you sure you're alright?" she called, not noticing Janine slipping out of Sherlock's embrace and smiling sweetly at him.

"Did I do okay?" she whispered.

Sherlock grinned at her. "Marvellous, Janine. I think I owe you one."


	4. Chapter 4: Epiphany

**A baby chapter today, but things are starting to happen! I think this'll probably need another two or three chapters before it's finished. Hope you're still enjoying it, and thank you once again for reviews and favourites and follows and... yes. They are all very much appreciated and make me happy. :)**

* * *

**9:02pm**

_John, don't wait up for me, I'll be home late tonight. SH._

**9:30pm**

_Janine has invited me back to hers, we were going to come to Baker Street but I thought you'd want to be left alone if you're feeling unwell. Hope that's okay. SH._

**9.40pm**

_Of course it's okay, I'm not your bloody mother. JW._

**9:42pm**

_Excellent. I'll see you in the morning then. SH._

John curled up on the sofa, feeling unable to make the final ascent to where his bedroom was, and reached for the TV remote. He knew it was unlikely that there would be anything interesting on but he needed some form of distraction, and fast. He also knew that he was unlikely to sleep with the way his thoughts were spinning around his mind, uncontrolled and unwanted as they were. Some mind-numbing television would sort him out, he thought hopefully. There was a special news programme on the ongoing conflicts in Africa, various music channels blaring godawful 'music' (jeez, he felt old) and some panel 'quizcoms'. He settled on one of them, hoping for a chuckle or two, and settled down into the couch, grabbing a blanket that was folded over the arm of Sherlock's chair. He briefly considered how it was odd that it had been left there, normally being stowed in a cupboard or drawer. Almost as if someone had known it was likely to be needed.

The host was talking, the panellists were laughing, and John was aware that he'd missed an entire joke, having been staring blankly at the television, lost in his own thoughts. He dragged a hand across his face, trying to draw some sense into himself, and realised he wasn't even sure _what _he'd been thinking about. Something was wrong, and he needed to figure out what, before it ate away at him anymore.

"I'll deduce," John said quietly to himself, glancing around the room just to check he definitely was alone, and that there was no one around waiting to jump out and laugh at him. He couldn't be 100% sure that Sherlock wasn't hiding, watching him from some darkened corner of the room, but he was as convinced as possible that he hadn't heard the door open downstairs and that all the windows were shut, so he was unlikely to have jumped in that way.

He slowly pushed himself up from his position on the couch, and absent-mindedly switched the television off, thoughts of losing himself in a comedy show abandoned. Next, he padded into the kitchen, grabbing the notebook that they always kept on the worktop and a pen from one of the muddled drawers just underneath. Finally, he settled himself into one of the chairs at the table, staring at the pad, chewing on the end of the pen, and trying to clear his mind of unnecessary thoughts before concentrating on himself, and what had happened over the last few days.

_1. I do care what people think of me. I care more what Sherlock thinks. I don't want him to think I'm stupid._

_2. Sherlock is deducing me. But what about me?_

_3. I am now trying to deduce myself. Again, what about myself?_

_4. I turned down a smart, attractive woman, and I have no idea why._

John paused, staring at the paper and what he had written so far. Something was beginning to click in his mind. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, gripping the pen, not wanting to admit the last point he was about to make to himself. Writing it down made it seem so final, so definite, and he was finally starting to realise the problem.

"It's so bloody obvious," he breathed, opening his eyes and, resignedly, completing his list of points.

_5. I hated seeing Sherlock with Janine._

* * *

If it was that obvious, Sherlock must have worked it out. He must have done. John was pacing now, biting his lip and glancing at the clock every now and then. He had no idea when Sherlock would be home, no idea if this was all part of some ploy - he wouldn't put it past the detective - and he really, really didn't want to text him just now. Anything he said would be examined extensively. He knew how Sherlock worked, and now he was aware of the _issue _he was terrified of having any contact with him at all.

He'd turned down a case of Lestrade's.

That thought stopped John in his tracks. He stared out of the window, thinking on a slightly different train of thought. This _case _of his, which John was beginning to accept was likely to be Sherlock's deduction of him, was important enough to him to turn down an actual case from Scotland Yard. It was interesting enough for him to ignore the Detective Inspector, to relieve him of his usual boredom. Stop him shooting the walls, itching for drugs. He hadn't even noticed the nicotine patches, let alone any stray cigarette packets. This was unprecedented.

John flopped down onto the sofa. His brain was starting to hurt as a mixture of thoughts and feelings that he'd either suppressed or hadn't identified threatened to induce a migraine. He cursed, grumbling to himself. Why did Sherlock have to play games? Why couldn't he just be normal and talk about things, like ordinary people did?

Because he's not normal, John's brain managed to answer through the fog of conflicting thoughts clouding over. That's sort of the point, isn't it? That's what attracted you to him in the first place. You liked that he was different, you admired his incredible brain power, and of course you were stunned by his-

"Enough," John said aloud, refusing to deal with this just now. It was late, he was confused and a little shell-shocked, and he needed his bed desperately. Sighing, he reached for his phone, and as he did so it lit up with a text alert.

**10:30pm**

_Bored. SH_

John blinked at his phone screen. Had Sherlock known that John would have had some sort of epiphany by now? What was he meant to respond to that?

Before he had a chance to think of anything witty, or even decide whether he was actually going to reply, another text came through.

**10:31pm**

_Janine's tired, I'm on my way home. See you in ten if you're still up. SH._

He exhaled, glancing at the clock. He had about ten minutes to decide if he was going to still be up when Sherlock arrived home.


	5. Chapter 5: Confrontation

_Normally he would need more evidence to back his hypothesis. A couple of minor experiments were not enough for him. He liked to know for sure that he was right, and test, test, and re-test until he was completely satisfied. It was a part of him that was at odds with his ego, his knowledge that he was nearly always right. His knee-jerk reactions always had at least a basis in the truth. And that first night, the night that he'd accidentally insulted John, he'd known that he was right._

_But he did have to check, had to do at least one or two tests. He told himself that this was because it was what he always did. No experiment could be termed valid if the evidence was a gut feeling. For any experiment to have validity, it needed to be investigated thoroughly. So he told himself, that night, and in the few days that followed, that _that _was what he was doing, why he didn't immediately act on his instinct. He knew now that wasn't the case._

_He hadn't dared to act on instinct, because for once, he was scared that he was wrong._

_Oh, he'd often pondered on the possibility of being wrong in previous experiments, but that possibility had never scared him. The most it had done was amuse him. The thought of being wrong tickled him, and interested him. In the very rare case where he had been somewhat off-track, he had been fascinated - with a tiny part of him concerned that someone might find out, of course. But never scared. He had enough gusto to shake off any taunts. He did it throughout his life in other matters anyway._

_One or two tests, this time, was enough though. His heart - yes, his heart, he had accepted this - couldn't take anymore. He wasn't even sure that he'd thoroughly enjoyed stalking, testing and winding up John as much as he'd thought he would. The emotion he felt was too strong, and it startled him. He had genuinely believed the words he spoke previously - that he was married to his job, that sexual matters weren't his area, that sentiment was a defect found in the losing side. Well... he still believed that one, but he was willing to risk that. He hummed, considering. He was actually willing to risk losing here. Despite being sure of his hypothesis now, he was prepared to accept that, even if he was right, he could still end up a loser._

_He pulled his collar up, emerging out from the shadows of the alleyway opposite Baker Street, staring up at the house. A light was still on in the living room. John had either left it on by accident... or he was still up. He hoped with all his might that it was the latter._

* * *

John had felt genuinely exhausted. The sheer panic that rose in his chest when he'd received Sherlock's texts hadn't done much to abate that, and after pacing for a couple more minutes, he'd sat down heavily on the sofa, his head in his hands, thinking. A couple of minutes later, he'd decided to think while lying down. And about thirty seconds after that, he was asleep. So tired was he that he didn't hear the key turning quietly in the lock downstairs, the door being pushed shut equally quietly, so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, and he didn't hear the creaking of the steps as Sherlock made his way up the staircase to the room that he was gently snoring in.

Sherlock glanced at the sleeping figure on the couch, and then flitted into the kitchen, turning the kettle on and resting his palms against the worktop, thinking. He could wake John, but then he'd be grumpy, and probably not in the mood to do... what? He could leave him lying on the sofa and try and get some sleep himself, but then John might wake before him and he really, _really _wanted to get somewhere with this tonight. The feeling of desperation was beginning to overwhelm him. Whether the desperation was to solve his case or to finally _have it out _with John was something he wasn't entirely sure about.

The kettle boiled, the "click" of the switch startling him out of his slight reverie, and he poured the water into an empty mug, before reaching for the jar of coffee and the sugar. He wasn't going to sleep, he knew that, and considering it as an option had been foolish. His mind was far too active and coffee would probably not help matters, but he didn't really care. He was going to stay up until John woke. Playing the violin was out, so drinking coffee and browsing through emails looked like a winning solution.

Finishing the making of his coffee, he was about to approach the laptop when something appeared in his field of vision, and, turning towards the table, he noted the pad of paper, the top page scribbled on in John's handwriting. Tearing the page off, he made his way over to the armchair to examine it.

* * *

It was still dark when John roused suddenly, and, glancing quickly at his mobile, he saw that it was just gone 2am. He had a sharp crick in his neck from the slightly awkward angle he'd been lying in and he moved in a rather jerky motion into a seated position, rolling his head around slowly to try and ease it. As he completed the exercise, he noticed with a jolt that his flatmate was sat in the armchair next to him, sipping at a mug and staring directly at him.

"What the hell... Sherlock, are you aware of what time it is?" he groaned, screwing his eyes tightly shut as memories of the previous evening came flooding back. As he opened his eyes, his blood ran cold when he noticed the piece of paper balanced on the arm of Sherlock's chair.

"Ah," he whispered, briefly wondering what the chances were that either Sherlock hadn't read it (laughable) or hadn't understood the implications (slightly more realistic, but still almost completely improbable).

"Ah," Sherlock echoed, still holding his mug to his lips, still staring at John.

The silence was beyond any sort of awkwardness that John had ever experienced before, and yet he felt transfixed as Sherlock continued to gaze at him, his eyes flashing with some form of heightened emotion that John couldn't define. He licked his lips ever so slightly, before eventually managing to turn away from his friend and look towards the kitchen, placing his hands either side of him on the sofa and absent-mindedly scratching the material gently with his fingernails.

"You and Janine..."

"Not together, John."

John nodded, closing his eyes again, the truth confirmed to him. He'd known that. He'd known it was part of him deducing John, part of the ruse.

"Sherlock, I really don't know what you're trying to prove-"

"Yes you do."

"Oh my God! You are unbelievable, do you know that?!" John exclaimed, his head snapping back to face his tormentor. The mug had been lowered now, and Sherlock was reclining slightly in his chair, one hand placed on the sheet of paper, almost protectively. He was still observing John, but there was a level of mirth playing at the corners of his mouth. John felt his frustration overwhelm him as he glared at Sherlock, but he had nothing to say. He was completely and utterly cornered.

"So..." Sherlock began, grasping the sheet of paper and bringing it up to eye level, hiding his face from John - which the doctor was quite grateful for at that point, owing to the crimson blush he felt engulfing his face. "You don't want me to think you stupid - I don't, by the way, I just don't rate your intelligence as highly as mine, which shouldn't come as a surprise to you really. We are both deducing you - it seems that as you wrote this, you were aware that there was a problem, but unaware of what it was. You turned Mary down when she asked you out on a date... see towards the end of this point, your handwriting tails off somewhat, it becomes shaky, as if you're starting to figure it out... And then this final point..." Sherlock peered at it harder, then nodded, lowering the paper, as if satisfied. "You obviously wrote this a few moments after the first four. Your handwriting is definitely more nervous here, you've just realised something that has shocked you, and you know that by writing it down you are confirming it to yourself." He glanced up at John, who had by now buried his head in his hands and was trying very hard to concentrate on the patterns of the carpet, or the fact that he really fancied a cup of tea just now.

"Did I get it right?" he asked softly.

No response.

"Am I to take your silence as confirmation?" he continued in his low baritone.

Still nothing.

Sherlock hummed slightly. "So, I wonder what it _was _that you realised J-"

"Okay, fine!" John snapped, eyes blazing as he turned them on the slightly startled detective. "Fine, you win, Sherlock. You always bloody win. I realised that my STUPID brain, heart, WHATEVER, has decided to completely fall for you, you massive git. I don't know why. Maybe it's because of the way you lovingly leave severed heads in the fridge to terrify me, or the way you never do ANY form of housework. Maybe it's the way you insult me in a manner that my alcoholic, abusive older sister would be proud of. Or maybe it's because of the occasions where you shoot holes in the walls, accidentally poison me with your 'experiments' or, infrequently, blow up the kitchen! But whatever it is, Sherlock, I've realised that I've somehow, rather stupidly, fallen in love with an asexual sociopath."

His soliloquy over, he returned to staring at the carpet, closing his eyes and trying desperately to remember how to breathe. The silence that met his outpouring was deafening, and John bit his lip, suddenly wishing he could turn back time. Sherlock had pushed him into the confession, John knew that Sherlock had already figured it out, but the rant he'd given was probably a little too much emotion for the detective to handle.

Suddenly, there was a movement, and before John knew what was happening, he was being pulled into a gentle hug, Sherlock now sitting in the corner of the sofa and John leaning on his chest a little awkwardly. His friend's arm was draped across his back and the his other hand was placed on top of John's, slightly stroking the skin.

"Sherlock..." John muttered, staring at their hands touching in such an... intimate? way. "What are you..."

Sherlock sighed. "Once again John, you see, but you do not observe. You've seen that I don't date. You put two and two together and you make god knows what."

John crinkled his brow, pulling away slightly and leaning up to get a view of Sherlock's face, which looked so much gentler and calmer than he'd ever seen it before. "You..."

"I've never once told you that I'm asexual," Sherlock interrupted him.

"But ... married to your work..."

"Yes. That was true on the very first day I met you when I barely knew you. Apart from what I'd deduced, obviously."

John smiled slightly.

"It's still true to a degree. Luckily, John, you're very much a part of my work anyway."

John shook his head slightly, before settling himself again on Sherlock, feeling much less self-conscious and far less awkward than thirty seconds before. "So..."

"John, I'm really tired just now," Sherlock whispered. "And... you know emotions aren't really my forte anyway, so talking about them when I'm exhausted possibly isn't the best idea. Any chance we could leave the inevitable chat til after we've both had a kip?"

John nodded into Sherlock's chest. "Absolutely. How comfortable are you here?"

A low chuckle emanated from the detective's throat. "I can think of somewhere we could both be far more comfortable."

**Right, one more chapter to go. And this one might take a while because I want to do it justice. *gulp*. Thank you once again for reviews, feel free to leave more. I hope you're still enjoying it :)**


	6. Chapter 6: This Is It

**Here we go lovelies, the last chapter... possibly. See my end note for details. It's a long one (for me), lots of feelings talk and a bit of fluff, sorry! And once again, thank you so much for reviews, favourites and follows. They make me rather happy :)**

John awoke with a start, and to an otherwise empty bed. He briefly wondered if he had dreamt the events of last night, and then remembered, as he gazed around him at the vaguely unfamiliar room, that they had ended up collapsing on Sherlock's bed, no talking, and no action, except an arm draped across John's stomach and hot breath raking across his neck. Sherlock had fallen asleep almost immediately, something that had rather surprised the doctor, but he had taken longer to drift off, so dazed by the confrontation the pair of them had had at 2 in the morning.

He sat up slowly, noticing his mussed-up hair in the mirror opposite him on Sherlock's surprisingly tidy chest of drawers, and briefly tried to flatten it, but to no avail. Sighing, he made to drag himself out of the bed, wondering where the detective had gotten to and how he'd managed to get up without waking him. He must have been exhausted. He could feel his t-shirt sticking to him slightly, although he didn't feel particularly warm. They must have cuddled in the night. The thought made him feel a little light-headed briefly.

Checking he wasn't running late for work - he wasn't - he noted that he would need a quick shower, and, after grabbing his trousers that he had managed to kick off before getting into bed last night, he quickly pulled them on to preserve a tiny bit of modesty before leaving Sherlock's bedroom.

The smell of bacon hit him immediately, and he grinned to himself before making his way into the main area of the flat. Sherlock was stood at the hob, clearly showered and dressed impeccably, as usual, and turned to glance at John as he moved towards the kitchen. Their eyes meeting, John felt his stomach flip and he exhaled sharply, grabbing onto the worktop with his right hand, feeling a sudden need to steady himself. The stare was intense, burning, and yet there was also the hint of amusement in his eyes as he watched the doctor flounder in his gaze.

"Morning." Sherlock's voice was almost a purr, it was that deep and so... inviting.

John swallowed, still caught in his friend's stare. "I... err... need a shower. Before... uhh... work..."

Sherlock nodded, breaking his look and turning back to the frying pan. "That's fine, this can wait a few minutes anyway. Don't be long."

John stared at the back of Sherlock's head for a few seconds, before shaking himself out of his reverie and retreating towards the bathroom. That man was incredible. How did he suddenly have that hold over him? Where had these feelings sprung from? Well. They hadn't really sprung from anywhere, had they? They were always there, always hidden deep under his attempts to date and bed a multitude of women, hidden under his infatuation with Sarah and his absolute certainty that he was straight.

Maybe he was straight, he thought to himself, in every other circumstance. He was in the shower now, allowing the hot water to wash over him, to cleanse him, and helping him to think a bit clearer. He wasn't aware of ever being attracted to any other man, and he was pretty sure that he _had _been attracted to Sarah and various other women that he had dated over the years. But Sherlock was different. Sherlock was in a league of his own, with his dark thick curls, his mysterious, piercing blue eyes, his pale complexion complete with his stunning high cheekbones. His absolutely infuriating intelligence. His sense of humour - no one had ever made John laugh as much as Sherlock had. The way they just _got _each other in a way that no one else had ever understood either of them. Oh, John had heard the rumours at Scotland Yard. He knew that many people thought they were already shagging. It had always mildly amused him before, and irritated him when he had felt that it was standing in the way of a date with an attractive lady ("No, we're just friends... God, don't listen to her, she's talking out her arse...").

He massaged the shampoo into his hair, shutting his eyes tightly as the water cascaded over him. Now he knew. Now he was acknowledging his feelings, being honest with himself. It had always been Sherlock.

"I've got literally ten minutes," John garbled as he dashed back into the kitchen, trying hard not to look at his flatmate. "So please, whatever you do Sherlock, do not tempt me. Maybe even avoid talking to me, because I'm not sure I can stand the sound of your voice just now."

A low chuckle as a plate complete with a bacon sandwich was handed to the doctor, but Sherlock, perhaps wisely, said nothing.

"I can't believe I have to go to work," John muttered, taking the plate to his armchair and ignoring the table. He risked a glance at the detective, but immediately wished he hadn't. The stare was back, lips pursed, eyes raking over him as he picked up one of the sandwich halves. John felt very much like he was being undressed with Sherlock's eyes, and it made him feel incredibly aroused.

"Sherlock," John groaned, biting a bit of his food. It tasted good, John noted with brief surprise. But then, surely even Sherlock couldn't muck up frying some rashers of bacon and putting them between two slices of bread. "Please... don't make this even harder for me."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow suggestively, and John felt himself go red at the unintended innuendo.

"Oh for fuck's... I am this close to phoning in sick," John grumbled.

Sherlock shook his head minutely, moving towards John as he finished his sandwich and stood up from his chair. Stopping mere inches from the doctor, his pale hands drew to John's hips, lightly resting on the slight curve either side of his body, and his head moved in to John's ear.

"Enjoy the suspense," he whispered huskily, his lips millimetres from John's ear. And then suddenly he was away, back in the kitchen, leaving John breathless, irritated, and extremely turned on. How could he do that with a three word sentence, a light touch to his body, a whisper in his ear?

"See you tonight," Sherlock said, grinning at him and glancing up at the clock, a signal that John really needed to get going. The doctor sighed, growled at Sherlock, before grabbing his bag and making haste to get to work.

* * *

It was awful. He hadn't really expected anything else, but the desire to get back home, coupled with the mild fear and anxiety as to what awaited him, was eating him up. And all the while, he had to listen to patients with their often ridiculous complaints, drumming his fingers on the desk and fighting every urge inside him to tell them to shut up and go home. One woman in particular, who was concerned about a red mark that had appeared on her baby's arm, led him to adopt his most sarcastic tone.

"Is the mark still there now?" he asked.

"No, but-"

"Does it appear whenever you pick her up?"

"Yes, but-"

"Have you considered that it might just be a pressure mark from your finger as you lift her?"

The woman had glared at him and stood, clutching her baby. "I am not too fond of your tone, Doctor Watson," she retorted as she swept out of the room, clearly mildly embarrassed but wanting to make a point.

John sighed and moved to rest his head on the desk, feeling the cool wood against his skin. Two more hours of mind-numbing tedium, and then he could go home. Two. More. Hours.

Mary had popped her head round the door at lunch, to check if he was feeling any better, but he had waved her away. He hadn't felt able to talk to her just now, still feeling guilty about brushing her off and then slightly leading her on by agreeing to go out with her. He had told her he was feeling better but he was rather busy, and he hadn't missed the disappointed look on her face as he asked her to leave. He mentally kicked himself again as he remembered it, but the thought vanished as he returned to thinking about Sherlock while he waited for his next patient.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing. He normally reserved his pacing for particularly difficult cases, or severe boredom. This was different. He was pacing because he was nervous.

Sherlock Holmes didn't do nervous.

He was always so sure of himself, arrogantly so, but when it came to attraction, to romance... to sex... he was practically an amateur. The seduction part, he could do. It was a skill necessary for crime-solving, winning people over when needed, abusing affection that people had for him. But now that their mutual attraction was out in the open, now that the cards were all laid upon the table, he felt slightly flummoxed. Seduction wasn't needed anymore. He knew that he effectively had John right where he wanted him, but he had no idea what to do with this.

Should he embrace him when he returned home? Should he be sitting, waiting to talk, as John seemed to think was necessary? Should he be elsewhere, give John time to get settled, changed?

He sat down on his armchair heavily, one elbow rested on one arm of the chair, leaning his head on his finger and thumb. He didn't really do emotions either. He knew that he felt something that he had never experienced before, and he knew that his feelings were all for John. The man had awakened something within him that he had genuinely believed hadn't existed. How long he'd felt that way, he wasn't sure, but he knew it had been a while. And, much like John, he had managed to suppress any alien thoughts and feelings, forget they existed, and fight any urges to do anything about them.

Leaning back, he closed his eyes and pictured his friend, stood silently before him. What was it about John that was so different from everyone else? He couldn't deny that there was definitely a physical attraction. He had noticed that the second that John had walked through the door that day in Barts, when Mike had introduced the pair to each other. But attraction was not as uncommon a feeling to Sherlock as others might have guessed. It just never normally progressed further than an instant physical attraction, and was easily ignored.

But John had been different. John had agreed to move in with him, for a start. John had put up with his nuances. John had called him brilliant when everyone else called him psychotic. John was intelligent, far more so than he realised, and god, John made him laugh. Sherlock enjoyed spending time with John outside of cases, and looked forward to a lazy weekend of doing nothing but watching TV, chatting and being mildly idiotic with his friend. Not that those weekends had occurred very often, but even when they were working on long cases, they managed to crowbar some fun and idiocy into their days. And that wasn't something that Sherlock would have enjoyed, or even contemplated, with anyone else.

And when John had looked at him, either in anger, or amazement, or something in between, Sherlock had felt his breath catch. There was something indescribable about how he felt for his older friend, something that reached far beyond the normal boundaries of friendship - not that Sherlock had much experience there either, but he was sure that some of the feelings he had had for John over the time they had known each other was _not normal _in the confines of a normal platonic relationship.

Now he knew. He had known for a while. He wanted John, wanted him more than anything he had ever wanted in his life. He groaned, standing up suddenly, glancing at the clock. 4pm. John would be home in just over an hour, and he had to decide what to do before then.

* * *

He pushed the door open slightly, nervous as to what he would find, and was slightly relieved to discover that Sherlock was not there. He entered the room, glancing around to double check, but the room was definitely empty, as was the kitchen. He could just about hear movement in Sherlock's bedroom, and, realising that his friend was giving him a chance to compose himself, he nipped upstairs to get changed, needing to rid himself of the surgery smell that he seemed to pick up every day. He had no idea what to wear... did it really matter?... settling finally for a pair of dark blue jeans and a plain white top. Biting his lip, he returned downstairs to face the music.

Sherlock was waiting, sitting on the arm of the sofa as John entered the room, looking suddenly very young and nervous. It was an unusual sight for the doctor, and he paused, making a mental note of it. He looked so vulnerable and just as scared as he was, which made John feel rather relieved.

"Hi," John said, as Sherlock looked up at him. There was none of the cheeky glances from earlier, or the burning intensity. There was just anxiety, and a smatter of what very much looked like hope.

The detective stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, and gave John a half-smile. "Hey".

John realised he was going to have to lead this conversation, and so cleared his throat before beginning. "Look, Sherlock, I'm not going to deny that I'm a bit annoyed."

This opening clearly surprised Sherlock, and his eyes darted around, assessing John's face. "You're annoyed?" he murmured.

John nodded, a slight smile flirting at the corners of his mouth. "You're the deducer around here. You worked out that I possibly had feelings for you, and instead of doing something about it, you made it into a game. You taunted me and made me feel pretty rotten on several occasions, you lied to me, you turned up at my work and wound up my colleagues. Why couldn't you have done something normal like... I dunno... just ask me out?"

Sherlock breathed in sharply, and then sat back down on the arm, his eyes now moved away from John. "You're not going to like my answer to that," he admitted. "But when I started... experimenting... I wasn't aware that I felt the same about you."

There was a silence, but John hadn't been surprised at his answer. It was something he had suspected. Sherlock seemed to realise this and, buoyed by this information, he continued speaking, his words spilling out rather fast in that rather Sherlockian way he had.

"I first became suspicious of your feelings towards me when you struggled to answer my question a few days ago. I asked you why my opinion of you was important to you, and you stumbled. You seemed surprised at my question. You did answer me, but it was the usual nonsense about me being your best friend-"

"You ARE my best friend, Sherlock-"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "That's as may be, but that wasn't the reason. I could tell by your reaction. Before you disappeared upstairs, I'd managed to glean from your body language that it was something deeper. My hypothesis was that you were attracted to me, but I needed to prove it. So I watched you for a couple of days, hoping to gain some sort of proof, and yes, I appeared at your workplace on Monday. As luck would have it, just at the right time..."

"So Mary wasn't a set-up then?"

"Of course not," Sherlock glanced up at John again. "She really is attracted to you. But when you rejected her - despite her being everything that you would normally be very attracted to in response - I had my first bit of proof that there was at least someone else you had on your mind. It could have been a coincidence, it could have been someone else you were thinking of. So then I needed to deduce your reaction when you saw me with someone else."

"Janine," John nodded.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "And... that was when I realised."

"That it was you I was attracted to?"

A slight smile. "No. Well, yes, but I already knew that really. No, that was when I realised that your feelings were reciprocated. I knew I needed to give you some time alone to come to terms with how you felt, but it was killing me, John." His voice quavered slightly, and John's heart leapt a little in his chest. "I left you alone to have a heart-to-heart with yourself, which I knew you would, and I was going to leave you all night, but... I couldn't." He stared at his hands. "I needed to see you," he admitted. "I needed to check that you had come to the realisation, that you had accepted it, and I needed to see what happened... between us."

John snorted. "Well, I hope you weren't too disappointed that hardly anything happened at all."

Sherlock leapt up suddenly, his eyes intently locked on John's. He took two steps towards him and placed his hands on John's arms. John felt suddenly very nervous as he stared up at his taller friend.

"'Hardly anything happened'?" Sherlock quoted, his voice sounding almost shrill. "Are you completely out of your mind, John?"

"I..."

"John, you admitted that you had _fallen in love with me. _We fell asleep together in my bed. I... I don't know whether you think that both those things meant nothing to me, but I assure you that they did."

The older man gulped, and gazed up at Sherlock. He was very aware of Sherlock's hands on his arms, his body tilted towards him so their chests were almost touching, his face inches away. No, centimetres. He could feel his breath on his face, see his eyes flickering as they seeked out a response.

"I... I'd forgotten I'd said that," John admitted. "I was so worked up I guess I just blurted everything out..."

Neither of them moved. The tension was reaching an unbearable point. Sherlock inhaled, and his hands gripped tighter onto John's arms, as if terrified that he would slip away. That was not something that John had any intention of doing.

"But... you did mean it," Sherlock whispered. It wasn't a question, more of a statement, however nervously uttered, but John felt compelled to reassure him.

"I did."

There was something else there in Sherlock's eyes, something that changed inexplicably as John confirmed his love for him. It was hope increasing to the point of desire, nervousness abating as hands moved from their clenched position down to John's waist, taking up a more tender residence. Still his head stayed where it was, a tiny distance from John's, but his lips parted slightly and John couldn't bear it any longer. Leaning forward and up ever so slightly, putting his hands on the detective's shoulders now that his arms were finally free from his grasp, he captured Sherlock's mouth with his and kissed him, lightly.

The tension dissolved as John pulled away again, as he felt himself being forced backwards against the closed door, as Sherlock's mouth found his again, as hands moved into his hair, as Sherlock's tongue licked hesitantly but yet still so erotically at John's lips. John parted his lips open, allowed Sherlock entrance, and his legs nearly buckled beneath him as Sherlock claimed his mouth, biting down on his bottom lip, his tongue running along the length of his mouth and across his own tongue. John gripped tightly to Sherlock, genuinely concerned that he would fall if he didn't. Once he felt slightly more in control of the situation, he allowed his arms to move round to Sherlock's back, one hand rising to bury itself in his dark curls. That hair. It was so soft, so thick, and John found himself stroking it as Sherlock continued to attack his mouth.

Both of them became gradually braver, and Sherlock suddenly moved to concentrate on John's neck. The doctor groaned as he nipped ever so lightly at the skin just under his ear and clung tighter to Sherlock again.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he whispered, nudging his head back up so they were facing each other, foreheads pressed together. "What on earth are we doing?"

A raised eyebrow. "I think it's called kissing, John."

John snorted, his hands absent-mindedly moving to Sherlock's hips as he continued to gaze at him. Sherlock put one hand on the back of John's head, moving to kiss him lightly on the forehead, and then drew him close.

"Is this too much? Too fast? I confess... I don't really have much experience in this area," Sherlock admitted in his deep baritone. John smiled into Sherlock's chest, nuzzling into his neck.

"No, no. It's all good. I don't have much experience in relationships with men either," John mumbled, his hands moving round to rest on Sherlock's backside, giving him a quick squeeze. Sherlock growled and pushed in to John slightly, unconsciously, and John was pleased to note that Sherlock appeared to be just as aroused as he was.

"At least you're not a virgin," Sherlock muttered. John paused, before pushing Sherlock back slightly and staring up at him.

"You're... you actually are a virgin?" John asked incredulously. "I thought-"

Sherlock sighed. "It's not something that's ever interested me before," he admitted. "Attraction has been there, but never enough to want to pursue it."

"But... but people must have pursued _you,_" John stated, disbelieving.

"Of course," Sherlock scoffed, almost insulted that John would have even considered otherwise. "But I was able to rebuff them. Sometimes a 'no' would suffice. Sometimes I had to pull out an uncomfortable deduction or two."

John grinned, as Sherlock ran a finger down his cheek, his eyes looking worried.

"Is it a problem?" Sherlock asked, concerned.

The doctor considered Sherlock's words for a few seconds. He had never wanted someone enough to want a relationship, sexual or otherwise, with them. John was the first. John was special. It made him feel weak at the knees all over again.

"What do you want from me?" John breathed. "Is it just... kissing? Just sex? Do you want a relationship? The ball is rather in your court - you know that I love you. I know you said that my feelings are reciprocated, but that was just when you had deduced that I was attracted to you. You know I want you and I love you. But I have no idea what you want."

"Can't you tell?" His deep voice sent shivers down his spine, and John bit his lip, fighting an urge to leap on him there and then.

"No, not really Sherlock," John admitted. "I mean... I think I can, but then... you're you. You're Sherlock Holmes. You can make anyone believe anything you want them to. Am I just another game to you?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, then sighed. "John, you know I am not one for emotions, for pouring my heart out, but I will do it this once. I desire you. I want you so much I can barely stand it. I have never felt this way about anyone before, and the feelings are terrifying me because I _have lost control. _So, based on these facts, and the fact that I know already how much I respect you and care for you as a friend, and knowing that I adore your personality as much as I want you physically, I can only deduce that I am in love with you too. It is a feeling I am not familiar with so is not something I can compare with anything else, but..." he paused, seemingly lost for words, and then gazed into John's eyes, and John could _tell. _"No, I know. I know I love you. I want to be with you, as more than just a work-colleague." He smiled slightly, and then continued. "But, as I said, I am inexperienced in these matters, and I need to know - is that a problem for you?"

John shook himself after that little outburst, and couldn't stop the beam spreading across his face. "Of course not," John whispered, leaning up to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "It's a little... daunting... but it's definitely not a problem, Sherlock. I have a feeling you'll be a fast learner anyway, but I don't want to disappoint you."

Sherlock smiled then, rather warmly, and leant in to whisper in his ear.

"I can assure you, Doctor Watson, that you will not be a disappointment to me."

**I am considering writing another 'final' chapter for this, or an epilogue of sorts. It entirely depends on the response to this, I am quite happy to leave it here, but I am equally happy to write a more in-depth happy ending, as it were. I have other ideas for other fics too, so I shall leave it in your hands whether I add to this or not. But I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, and I'm delighted to have (possibly) finished my first fanfic :) I'm always amazed when I complete something! **

**Much love x**


	7. Chapter 7: Happy Ending

**Well. This is it. My final chapter for my first ever fanfic, and my first foray into the world of slashy smut. I sincerely hope I've done this justice - I am just a little bit terrified - but please let me know what you think. I'm using this as a starting point for other fics to come, but I hope it is good enough for this fic, which many of you seem to have enjoyed (thank you so much for that, by the way).**

**Thank you to everyone who had read, favourited, followed, reviewed etc. You all made me feel very welcome to the world of Sherlock fandom and made me feel able to write other fics as well. The response to this story very much influenced my decision to continue on here, and it has become a bit of an obsession, but what a wonderful one it is :)**

**Anyway, on with the story. Once again, I sincerely hope you all enjoy it. Please note the changed rating for this fic - just to be safe!**

* * *

He could hardly believe this was finally happening.

They had ended up in Sherlock's bedroom, John pushing against him urgently as he guided him backwards a little precariously, kissing him deeply, hands gripping tightly into his hair. The door had been kicked closed once they were inside and John wasn't entirely sure how, but they had ended up on the bed, a messy tangle of limbs and bodies, hands and lips and teeth and tongues. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was a complete novice - if he had ever kissed anyone properly before - but if he hadn't, if John was his first, he had been an excellent learner, as John had predicted.

The kissing had continued for a long time, possibly hours... and that was all that happened, asides from shirts and trousers being removed somewhere along the way. And John was absolutely okay with that. He hadn't had a make-out session like that since he was a teenager, and it had made him almost giddy with delight, re-living his youth with his new lover, the only person he wanted to be with now and (hopefully) forever. He had never felt a connection as strong as the one he had with Sherlock, had never considered any past 'conquests' as friends as well as partners, and had never fallen in love with someone so complex, so interesting, so _goddamn beautiful _in so many ways as Sherlock. The thought that some day, maybe soon, Sherlock would feel comfortable enough to take it further delighted and excited John, but he knew that he would wait as long as it took. He was in no hurry, he didn't want to scare him, and was happy to go at whatever pace he felt comfortable with.

Turning over, he gazed at the sleeping detective, lying on his stomach, head tilted towards the doctor, eyes closed gently and a small, content smile playing across his lips. John had never seen him look so calm before, and his heart soared to think that he was the cause of that happy look on his face. He inched a little closer to Sherlock, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and then softly rubbing his nose against his.

"Na-night," he whispered, and was delighted when he felt Sherlock's arm reach out and curl around his body, pulling him even closer. The feeling of almost complete skin-on-skin contact with Sherlock was breath-taking. Closing his eyes, he grinned and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

The resident duvet monster shuffled into the kitchen just after 8am. John smirked as he glanced up at him from his paper and cereal.

"Why are you in here?"

"Well, good morning to you too," John yawned. "I woke up, and didn't want to disturb you, so thought I'd come and get some breakfast."

"You're dressed," grumbled the walking, talking duvet, somehow managing to perch on a chair across from John.

"Your deductive skills are _superb _this morning, Sherlock," he replied fondly, moving the bowl to one side and gently touching the pale hand that rested on the table. "You know, you could just say that you want me to come back to bed."

Sherlock's hand froze, then he peeped out from under his cocoon. "Doesn't that sound rather... needy?" he asked hesitantly.

"Mmm," John grinned. "But that's okay. I think I could get used to Needy Sherlock."

He was rewarded with a scowl, and the pale hand being pulled away, and John laughed quietly to himself.

"Anyway," John said, returning to the paper. "Shouldn't you maybe see about that case that Lestrade was on about the other day? A 'locked room' myste-"

"Solved it," Sherlock said dismissively. "I grant you, I did have to think about it for at least an hour, but it's all dealt with. And I've already texted him this morning, and he's got nothing for me." He sighed dramatically, burrowing his head further out of the duvet, and John couldn't help but inhale rather sharply at the sight of Sherlock's mussed-up hair, his sleepy eyes, pale complexion and those lips, still looking a little bruised from last night's adventures. He caught a glimpse of one particular mark that he had left on Sherlock's neck, and blushed lightly.

Sherlock caught the look on his face, and gave a slow, almost predatory smile, before instantly replacing it with his previous, pathetic puppy-dog eyes. "I'm going to be so _borrred, _John," he groaned, standing up suddenly, duvet still wrapped around his body. "So very, very bored."

"Hmm," John said, regaining his usual colour and glancing back at the paper, feigning uninterest. "That's a shame."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, before huffing and stomping back towards his bedroom. John bit back a chuckle, closed the newspaper and took his time with taking his cereal bowl to the sink and slowly cleaning it. He felt like making the daft git stew for a little while, but he stopped short of going to sit in his armchair for a bit, as he had originally intended. Unable to help himself, once his bowl and spoon were drying on the draining board, he made his way back to the bedroom, knocking once on the door before entering. There was an annoyed-looking lump under the bed linen, and John smiled before addressing it.

"Just ask me, Sherlock," he said softly. "I already said that. Stop playing games and just say what you want. It doesn't make you needy, or desperate, or..."

"Sentimental?" he muttered from under the sheets.

"What is your problem with sentiment?" John asked, before answering his own question, rolling his eyes. "Oh yes. Sentiment - found only on the losing side. You know your brother comes out with a load of bullshit sometimes, yes?"

Sherlock flung the covers off his face, scowling once again at the doctor. "Of course I know that, John. But this does make sense. I can be hurt if I let people get too close to me, if I make myself vulnerable."

"Sherlock, you're just asking me-"

"I know that," he snapped. "But, the bigger picture. If people find out how... _close... _we've become, then you become more of a target. Your life is in danger, you could be used as a bargaining tool."

The sigh that escaped John's mouth surprised even the dark-haired detective, and he was even more surprised when he plonked himself down on the bed next to him and gently pushed his hair back from his forehead, kissing him lightly in the same spot.

"Sherlock," he said, gazing at him, his hand still resting on the back of his head. "I've been kidnapped and been forced to wear a jacket of Semtex. I've had trained killers aim rifles at me. I was a sniper's target. You disappeared out of my life for _two fucking years _and I went to pieces. These things all happened before I was even aware that I loved you. My life has been in danger since I met you, and I couldn't care less. You said it yourself, Sherlock - I need the adventure, I crave the excitement, and recent _developments _have upped the ante somewhat, but how much worse can it really get?"

He grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand, determined to convey how earnest he was being.

"I fully intend to stay here, with you, for as humanely possible. I don't intend to get kidnapped, shot or lose you again. Equally, the thought of us not being together now, because of some perceived threat, makes me feel ill. I would rather risk the imagined terror that you are envisaging just now, if it means I get to be with you. If that's alright with you?"

Sherlock's pupils darted, raking over John's face, trying desperately to read into anything he'd said, anything he was displaying in his face. John recognised the look, and sat patiently, waiting, wishing slightly that Sherlock would just trust what he said, but understanding that this was going to be a hard habit to break. This was how Sherlock worked; everything had to be deduced, nothing could be taken at face value. Someday, John would make Sherlock realise that he could be.

As he waited, he shifted slightly closer to Sherlock, balancing his weight with one hand while still keeping the other firmly clasping Sherlock's head, moving his fingers slightly to allow the curls to weave between them. He enjoyed the feel of Sherlock's hair, and could hardly believe that he was now able to touch it like this, mid-conversation, instead of having to resort to gently touching it while he was sleeping in his armchair, or 'accidentally' touching it as he walked past him. He should have realised then, he thought to himself suddenly, how he'd felt about his friend. How had it not occurred to him? Had he actually convinced himself that a desire to touch a friend's hair was perfectly normal in a platonic relationship? It seems he had. He snorted at his own idiocy, and Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, sensing some joke at his expense that he was missing.

"Sorry," John apologised, straightening his face out and catching Sherlock's eyes. "I just... never mind. My own stupidity just made me laugh."

"Well, that's hardly surprising," Sherlock quipped, but his face relaxed and John breathed out a sigh of relief, sensing that his earlier words were finally accepted.

Sherlock shrugged off the duvet and John noted that he had pulled on a rather baggy t-shirt - his, he realised suddenly, recognising the beige, rather boring-looking top.

"And where did you get that?" he asked, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and lightly pushing him.

He looked suddenly embarrassed. "I... I might have grabbed it a few days ago from your room."

John laughed, and grinned at his friend. "Yep. Definitely no sentiment there."

There was a light blush appearing in Sherlock's cheeks that John couldn't ignore, and, marvelling slightly at the sudden colour, he moved the hand that was lost amongst Sherlock's curls and touched Sherlock's face softly. "You really are so beautiful," he said, almost awe-struck.

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous John."

"You still haven't asked."

He blinked. "Come back to bed. Please."

* * *

He laid back on the bed and watched as John quickly undressed, leaving his dark, figure-hugging boxers on to preserve some modesty. He couldn't help but stare at the rippling muscles, the beautifully tanned body. He'd already become acquainted with the bullet wound the previous night, but John hadn't seemed worried about it, allowing Sherlock to inspect it closely, sating his curiosity. He had kissed it lightly, which had seemed to please John, and had then returned to the more interesting task of kissing his mouth. Even after kissing him for over two hours, Sherlock hadn't been bored; a revelation that had astounded him. Once he had accepted his attraction, and then love for, John, he had still expected to find the whole physical side of things tedious and unnecessary, but he had been surprised at how much he enjoyed just _being _with his... lover, he supposed. That was where this was heading, and Sherlock didn't find that he minded that. He was, in fact, experiencing a constant tingling feeling in his stomach, a strange tugging feeling in his chest and a dryness in his mouth that he put down to anticipation of events to come. A pleasant kind of anticipation. His favourite.

Once the t-shirt and jeans had been removed, John slipped into the bed next to Sherlock, under the covers, and snuggled up close to him. Sherlock was sat up in the bed a little higher, his arm curled underneath John and his hand stroking his arm softly as John leant his head onto Sherlock's currently clothed chest.

"Hang on," John said, looking up a little. "You're still wearing clothes."

Sherlock grinned. "Would you rather I wasn't?"

"Obviously."

He sat forward, drawing his arm out from underneath John, and tugged the offending item of clothing up and over his head. Throwing it off to the side, he relaxed back down, further down this time so his head was level with John's. They stared at each other for several seconds, Sherlock shifting onto his side so he was directly facing him.

"I'm going to kiss you now," John whispered. "You okay with that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't have to ask me every time you nggghhff."

John interrupted him, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's open lips and ran his tongue along the bottom lip. Sherlock groaned, wrapping his arm back around him and pulling him closer, as if wanting to climb inside him. He couldn't get close enough. The sensation of John's tongue against his, of John biting down gently on his lip, running his tongue along his teeth, caused him to shudder rather dramatically and cling onto his friend. He could feel John smiling against him and suddenly, John's mouth was moving away from his, planting kisses down his neck and onto his bare chest. Sherlock inhaled sharply, gripping onto John's hair without much success, it being far shorter than his own. When he felt his tongue flick against his left nipple, he let out a noise that could best be described as a squeak.

John reappeared from under the covers, one eyebrow raised and an amused look on his face. "What... on earth... was that?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock muttered. "I'm not used to making uncontrolled noises, having never been in this sort of situation before, and I would very much appreciate it if you didn't mock me when I did."

John shuffled back up and planted a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to..."

"I know," Sherlock said. "It was quite a ridiculous noise."

Another kiss, sweet and tender, and Sherlock sighed against his lips, enjoying the soft, not-so-terrifying sensation. With John, he felt strangely protected, safe and cared for. It was a feeling he was very much unused to, having had few friends in his life that truly worried about him. He had always felt safer when John was around, and this added security was a pleasant bonus.

John pulled back slightly, arms wrapped around Sherlock's body, letting his fingers caress his back gently and lovingly. He gazed at Sherlock once more, noting with unadulterated glee the dilated pupils and wide eyes.

"How... how far should I take this?" he asked hoarsely. "I don't want to push you into anything... if you just want to kiss again, that's absolutely fine. More than fine," he corrected himself, smiling reassuringly at his friend. "I could kiss you all day and night."

Sherlock nodded, but he looked somewhat distracted. "I... I don't really know," he confessed, his eyelids dropping slightly, feeling nervous. "I _want _to..." he looked back up at John helplessly, but John seemed to be able to understand what he was trying to say, his caresses becoming slightly firmer and more reassuring.

"It's fine," he said gently. "I'm in my absolute element; it's a weekday, I've not got any work, you've not got any cases, and I get to spend the morning in bed, kissing you." He beamed, genuinely still not quite able to accept his good fortune, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, touched at how happy John was merely from being with him. He felt some of his hesitancy peeling away, but didn't mention it, wanting to see how far things went without getting John's hopes up.

"Can I... can I kiss you?" he asked nervously, suddenly realising that John had instigated every kiss thus far. John's eyes darkened with sudden lust, and Sherlock licked his lips, unintentionally exacerbating the look he was being given.

"You can do whatever you want," John replied, then winced at Sherlock's sudden impish grin. "Within reason," he added hurriedly, not wanting to imagine what hidden fantasies the man might possess within that mind palace of his.

Another grin, and then Sherlock gently, nervously, leant in and kissed John, pressing his lips against his and placing his hand on John's waist. John jolted, evidently surprised that his hand had not returned to his hair, or a 'safer' place further up his body, but continued to accept Sherlock's kisses. Feeling slightly adventurous, Sherlock let his hand drift slowly down to John's hip, his thumb rubbing along the line of the hipbone and carefully let his little finger run under the band of John's boxers.

John gave a slight shudder, and Sherlock could feel his hand moving slowly down his back, fingers pressing into the small indent just above his own boxers as they continued kissing. Sherlock had prised John's lips apart with his tongue and was enjoying experimenting with different movements of it, flicking it against John's own and letting it slide along to the corners of his mouth. He gingerly pushed his ring finger into the boxers now, his hand moving further down over John's hip. John jolted against him, and Sherlock suddenly became aware of his growing erection pressing urgently against his own. Shocked, he broke away from the kiss, glancing down fruitlessly as the covers hid any of their activities below the neck.

John followed his gaze and nudged his head into Sherlock's gently. "It's okay," he whispered. "You don't have to..."

"No," Sherlock said suddenly, looking back up at him, his eyes fiery with heat and lust. "I want to, I really do. I just... I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing."

"You're doing absolutely great," John breathed, as Sherlock's hand slipped even lower, resting almost completely now under the fabric of his underpants. "You're an absolute tease, but you're doing fine."

His own hand ran around to Sherlock's side and, without thinking, he pushed the fabric down. Sherlock, who had returned to kissing John, moaned into his mouth and shot back slightly.

"Oh god, Sherlock, I didn't mean..."

"No." His face was determined. "Off. Get them both off. Now."

John nodded hurriedly, finding the sudden dominant force of Sherlock's voice absolutely breath-taking. He briefly wondered how likely it was that he would end up bringing his usual dominance of John into the bedroom, and found himself hoping against hope that it would make at least a frequent appearance, if not constantly. This surprised him, being the usual dominant partner in any previous sexual relationship. His stomach somersaulted as he gently pulled Sherlock's boxers off over his hips, being careful not to tug to hard at his now very obvious erection, before removing his own, flinging both onto the floor and then resuming his position wrapped in Sherlock's arms. They both groaned as John unconsciously rutted against Sherlock, their cocks grinding together with a sudden force.

"Oh my god..." Sherlock gasped against John's mouth, and John briefly wondered, in his sudden passionate haze, if Sherlock had ever even orgasmed before. Surely he must have done, he reasoned. Even the great Sherlock Holmes must have wanked before.

But he was very much aware that this was definitely, absolutely the first time that Sherlock had ever done anything with anyone else. He wanted to witness that, suddenly felt a desperate urge to see Sherlock come undone for the first time with someone else's 'help', and he couldn't stop the feeling of joy spreading through him that _he _was the person that got to be a part of that.

"Sherlock," he whispered, gently pressing his hand between their two bodies and running a finger lightly up his length. He could feel the pre-cum from both of them, creating a useful lubricant. "Is this... okay?"

In answer to his question, Sherlock suddenly attacked John's mouth, kissing him feverishly as John slipped his hand fully between them both, encircling them both with his thumb and fingers and gently stroking up and down, pressing them together, rocking his hips lightly against him as he did so. The noises he was producing from Sherlock only served to make him more and more aroused, and he felt an insane amount of pleasure soar through his body, and felt as Sherlock ground into him, pressing his mouth tighter against his, moaning deeply into him as his strokes grew firmer. Then he threw his neck back, eyes screwed tightly shut, and John could tell that he was close.

"It's okay, love," he whispered hoarsely, licking at Sherlock's neck, causing him to shudder. "You're safe with me. Come for me, Sherlock."

The absolute roar that emerged from Sherlock's throat sent shivers down John's spine and, determined not to miss the entire event, he forced his eyes open, knowing that the sight of this would spur on his own ending. He felt Sherlock's hips buck against his, saw his hands scrabbling for purchase on the pillows, on the sheets, on the duvet, and felt the pure explosion as he came, shuddering and cursing his way through it. John finally could fight it no longer and, clinging tightly onto Sherlock's wrist with the hand that had been wedged beneath him, he felt himself spasming out of control. He wasn't aware of what he was saying, only that he was finally, joyfully _here_, with Sherlock, in his bed, cementing their relationship and effectively ruining their platonic friendship. He couldn't have been happier.

When they had both managed to calm their ravaged breathing, and after John had ineffectively dabbed at both of them with some tissues before flinging them into the bin beside the door, he crawled into Sherlock's outstretched arms, still shaking from the after-effects of his rather intense orgasm. Sherlock looked content, calm and so happy. John was amazed, once again, at the intensity of contentment and happiness that radiated from the detective, and snuggled into his chest, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock lazily stroking his hair.

"That was amazing," John said, his words sounding ragged even to his own ears.

A low chuckle emanated from above him. "In a word," he replied.

"What made you want to go that far?" John asked sleepily.

Sherlock glanced down at his wonderful, amazing partner. Such a strange word, partner. It conjured up so many meanings; for the two of them, it had originally meant _colleague, _two men who worked together, solving crimes. He remembered how hurt he'd felt when John had corrected him at the bank that time, Sherlock introducing John as his friend but John insisting they were colleagues. He'd wondered if maybe his definition of 'friend' was different to the norm, but had accepted that he, at least, considered John a friend after the incident at the pool, a feeling that was confirmed between both of them a few months later at Baskerville. So, another kind of partnership. Colleague, to friend.

By the time of his fall, Sherlock had been aware of feelings for John stronger than those he had for either Molly or Lestrade, two people he would have defined, if pushed, as friends as well. He knew that John spoke of him as his "best friend" and, looking back, he knew that those feelings were possibly getting muddled, for both of them, with those of a more romantic nature. His partner, now, was snuggled up into his chest, having just provided Sherlock with the most intense pleasure he could ever remember experiencing. Definitely a different sort of partner now.

An intense feeling of calm washed over him as he continued to play idly with John's hair, letting his fingers drift onto his neck. He had felt suddenly so trusting of John, and once again it was a feeling that he was not used to. He had been so utterly nervous of any physical side to their blossoming relationship, but once he was in John's arms, captivated by his words, his kisses, his assurances, the worry and panic had vanished. Hell, he was still nervous, and would be for quite some time yet, he imagined. But that was only because he was desperate to please John, to make him happy - _another _feeling he was most definitely not used to having. He scowled briefly. This man was going to change him. If he started feeling urges to be _nice _to people, he might have to call the whole thing off.

His hand tightened suddenly, wanting to cling onto John as much as he could. No. Even the thought of that, even joking about such a thing, produced such a feeling of abject terror that he couldn't bear it.

What made him want to go that far?

He pressed a kiss into John's scalp, aware that he was drifting off to sleep. "I just did," he whispered soothingly. "I can't really explain it John. I guess sentimentality got the better of me."

John smiled, his eyes fluttering closed. "Love you, Sh'lock," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded, bracing himself before submitting utterly to sentiment. "Love you too, John."

**THE END (Really this time!)**


End file.
